Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 2

Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread

When I came back to work from a doctor’s appointment the parking lot was crammed, forcing me to stow my car on the street. “What gives?” I asked the head admin when I came inside. 

“It’s the National Day of Prayer,” she said. 

“Already?”

“Time flies.” 

“Is there food afterwards?” I said, noticing that my stomach was rumbling. 

“Right afterwards. They’re all gathered outside.”  

Since the local churches give generously to my food pantry, I figured my attendance was mandatory. Because of my appointment, however, I was late, forcing me to make an awkward entrance just as everyone was singing The National Anthem. Finding a seat in the back, I enjoyed the feel on the spring sun on my back as several pastors, a deacon, Iman, rabbi and a nun offered noticeably ecumenical prayers for our town and country. When it was the Presbyterian minister’s remarks, he said. “We were tasked to pray for nice weather today and God delivered. Just giving my church a plug.” 

After the service concluded with singing “America the Beautiful,” I shook hands with several religious leaders and donors and then went into the auditorium for my free lunch – but the tables were bare. “There was a screwup,” the admin, said, looking horrified. “The caterer was under the impression this was next week. They’re rushing to get it here.” Looking at the others waiting for their free lunch I said, “Time for the miracle of the loaves and fishes. If one of these ministers can pull it off, I’ll go to his church.” 

“Watch,” a minister who overheard me, said. “It’ll be the Muslim guy.” 

“I have to go to my office,” I told the admin. “Call me when it gets here.” 

An hour later, the food finally arrived but all the ministers and several of the seniors who’d shown up for the service had left. “I can hear the blood sugar levels crashing,” I said. “Even Jesus knew you need food to lure people in.” 

“How so?” one of my co-workers said. 

“The Last Supper? Do you think the apostles would’ve shown up if there wasn’t food?”

“You’re bad.” 

“The Eucharist was a real meal originally,” I said, lapsing into professorial mode. “And I’m sure people back then were saying, ‘Simon puts on a better spread than Jacob. Let’s go to his house!’ Some of the earliest writings of the church were cautions regarding drunkenness at the Lord’s Supper.” 

“I didn’t know that.” 

“I’m sure some worshippers showed up pre-medicated.” 

With short notice, the caterer did the best he could, and the admin liberated leftover fruit juices and waters from a recent blood drive to shore up the beverage supply. When you factor that in plus the people who left, there was just enough food and drink for everybody. A kind of half ass miracle, but a miracle, nonetheless. After I had my half sandwich and potato salad, I went back upstairs to mind the food pantry. 

Things are getting bad, and I fear, with the way the economy is going, they’ll just get worse. Clients are coming more often, taking more supplies, and I’m getting more people from outside my catchment area than usual. Luckily our supplies are holding, but I’m starting to worry. We made it through COVID with flying colors but now we seem to be entering uncharted territory. “We’re all going to be on food stamps soon,” I groused to a volunteer. “That is if Donald doesn’t gut that program as well.” After several clients came and went, I surveyed our supplies of fresh meat and eggs and noticed that what we’d purchased only days before was almost gone. 

“Give us this day our daily bread,” is prayed in churches every day. A literal translation of those words from the Greek would be, “The bread of us belonging to tomorrow give to us today,” but could also be rendered Bread adequate for today’s needs. Yeah, just “daily bread” works too but, as David Bentley Hart wrote, “… I doubt most of us quite hear the note of desperation in that [Greek wording] – the very real uncertainty, suffered every day, concerning whether today one will have enough food to survive.” If you can’t eat, not much else is going to get done. Jesus was a realist. 

When it comes to the Eucharist, it drives me nuts that in an ostensibly Christian country so many people go hungry. Feeding people was what Jesus was all about, even to the point of that food being his own body and blood. But too often the Eucharist gets buried under a ton of religious errata. When I was in seminary, we were taught all about transubstantiation, bowed before the tabernacle containing the Sacred Host, and every Sunday adored a consecrated wafer encased in a gold monstrance on the altar. While I have absolutely no problem with any of that stuff, I’ve always wondered why people could go to Mass on Sunday and be such shits to people the rest of the week. “Some people,” my priest godfather once wagged, “Think Mass is some kind of magic show.” 

Hocus pocus theology drives me insane. In fact, some people think “hocus pocus” comes from the whispered words of consecration used during the old Latin Mass – “Hoc Est Enim Corpus Meum” when the priest didn’t face the faithful and they had to ring a bell to let them know what was going on.  (In the Eastern Rite, they still don’t face the congregation but sing Jesus’ words loud and clear.) Some of my classmates were so enthralled with the whole “Real Presence” thing that they sometimes pulled shit bordering on ecclesiastical offenses. We had one guy, whom I’ll call Jose, who kept the Blessed Sacrament in his room for private devotion which is a no no. So, one day, we broke into his room, removed the host from the gold pyx he stored it in, reverently consumed it, and then dropped the open pyx into his aquarium. “If you ever want to see Jesus again,” the ransom note we left read. “We want $50,000 in small bills or else.” As you can imagine, Jose’s reaction was epic.

The Eucharist, despite now being a stripped down meal, is still just that, a communal meal and never meant to be a private thing. In Pre-Vatican II days, Roman Catholic priests often would celebrate mass alone, which kind defeated the purpose. Who likes eating alone? In the Eastern Churches, last I checked, it is forbidden for a priest to celebrate the Divine Liturgy alone, a testament to its communal character. But boy, the rubrics and rules surrounding the whole thing can border on the ridiculous. “If you like, go into a bakery with a glass of Chardonnay,” I asked a professor, “And say the words of consecration, is everything in the bakery now the Body of our Savior?” It was the kind of typical smart ass remark I was famous for, but the answer I got blew my mind. 

“No,” the professor calmly stated. “The priest can only confect the Eucharist (What is this, taffy?) on a specific place on the altar that is covered with a corporal. (A square linen cloth.) That’s the zone of intention and anything outside it is not consecrated.” 

“So, if someone in the congregation had a roll in their pocket,” I said. “That wouldn’t undergo sacramental change?  

“No,” the priest said with a straight face. “And it’d have to be unleavened bread anyway.” See what I’m talking about? But it gets even better. 

A few years before I came to the seminary, our chapel caught fire and burned down. The upperclassmen still around who’d witnessed it would regale us newbies with the tale of a guy who, upon seeing the conflagration, tried to rush into the burning building to “save the Blessed Sacrament.” Luckily the Rector put a stop to that saying, in effect, “We can make more.” Did that lunatic really think Jesus wanted him to risk his life to save a wafer? I mean, c’mon. 

I know some people think I’m being sacrilegious here, but I’m not.  Though I’m no longer a practicing Catholic, I think the sacred elements should always be treated with devotion and respect, but I think people often lose sight of the fact that the Church, the ecclesia or assembly, is the Body of Christ too. While I might be crossing into heresy here, I’ve always thought that “Body” meant not just those gathered in St. Agnes on Sunday but the entire human race – no matter their religion or lack thereof. As the original Canon of Paul VI’s Mass read, Jesus said his blood was shed “for you and for all.” Everybody. So, if the sacramental celebration of the Lord’s Supper is divorced from meeting the needs of people who actually hunger and thirst, what’s the point? Living breathing people must the zone of intention, otherwise, it’s all a magic show – Hoc Est Abracadabra and Alacazam. 

Luckily, all the faith communities in my town seem to put their money where their mouth is. Whether they’re Catholic, Methodist, Episcopalian, Lutheran, Evangelical, Pentecostal, Hindus, Jews, or Muslims (Or schools, business, scouts, civic groups or just plain individuals) they’ve all donated to my food pantry many times. And, as I’m helping bring supplies in, watching volunteers sort donations, or clients carry out groceries. I realize I never really strayed far from where I started. I might not be clad in robes presiding over an altar swinging incense but, in a small yet very real way, with the help of my community – the assembly – I help people get their “Daily Bread.” And that’s the Eucharist too. 

Funny how that worked out. 

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Yesterday, Today, And Forever

My mother-in-law is of an evangelical flavor and, for her recent milestone birthday, asked us to attend services with her on Easter Sunday. 

“Sure,” I told my wife. “Why not? If I explode into flames, it’ll make all the papers.” 

“Uh,” my wife said, “We’re not going to a regular church.” 

“What do you mean,‘Not a regular church?’”

“It’s the Jews for Jesus.” 

Chuckling, I could almost hear thousands of Catholic saints rolling in their reliquaries. ‘‘For your mom, honey,” I said, “No problem. At least it’ll be interesting.” 

Arriving at the temple that holiday morning, we were greeted by several ushers chorusing, “Happy Resurrection Day!” Since I’d never heard it put quite that way, I replied, “And a happy Easter to you as well!”  Taking seats in the back, my daughter looked at a banner over the stage and asked, “Who is Yeshua?” 

“That’s what Jesus was actually called,” I said. “It’s a different way of saying ‘Joshua.’”

“That was his real name?” 

“Yep. But when the scriptures were written in Greek, they translated Yeshua to Iēsous – Jesus.” 

The service started with the blowing of the shofar followed by lots of singing, dancing and prayers before the Rabbi ran onto the stage and launched into his sermon. Energetic and joyful, he gave a detailed talk on how the resurrection of Jesus couldn’t have been some kind of put up job, crying, “The apostles weren’t that smart!” which elicited a laugh from me. Then as he listed more examples – many of which I knew, and some I didn’t – from extant Roman writers, The Talmud, The Acts of the Apostles and then ended with something that made my ears perk up. “And we know The Resurrection was real because we are all here today!” Then the service ended, and my family and in-laws took the birthday girl to a Mexican restaurant for lunch – but the rabbi’s words still echoed in my years. 

The Resurrection is tough to wrap our heads around because when people die, they tend to stay dead. None of us have seen a person return from the grave. Not once. Not ever. The notion’s so far from our lived existence that you could forgive people for thinking it’s all a fairy tale. That hasn’t stopped billions of people from believing in it, however, but is it all wishful thinking? A way to assuage our own anxiety over death and enable us to persevere through life’s numerous heartaches? Even people who’ve gone to church all their lives sometimes question if the resurrection is just a bunch of malarkey.  After my dad died, my grief stricken mother told me, “I don’t know if I believe in any of that stuff anymore.”  You’d think with my background I’d have an answer for her, but I didn’t. But when you realize you’ll eventually lose everyone you’ve ever loved – or they will lose you – that can do a number on you. 

I’d also be feeling death’s sting quite a bit lately. Within roughly a year our Boston Terrier Felix died, followed by my dad, and then my friend committed suicide.To say those events took wind out of my sails would be an understatement. There had been too much loss. Too much illness and death and, when this winter seemed reluctant to give way to spring, I wondered if warmth and life would ever return again. Then a few weeks ago, my wife emailed me a picture of a dog. “What do you think about this girl?” she wrote. 

My wife was broken up by Felix’ death but that didn’t stop my daughter from asking when we’d get another dog, “You have to give mommy time,” was my constant refrain but, truth be told I was getting antsy myself; playing with relatives’ dogs, petting those of strangers, and feeling that tug whenever I saw Felix’s old leash hanging by the door. After being a dogless home for over a year, Annie contacted the breeder who sold her Felix in 2009 to see if they had any puppies for sale. They didn’t, but had a four year old female Boston who’d “retired” from having babies and would we be interested? “Already housebroken,” I wrote back. “Let’s go see what we’ll see.” So, two weeks after Easter, I threw my family in the car and drove two hours to see a man about a dog. 

“Rosie” was not Felix. Where he’d been svelte, Rosie was chunky and, after nursing fifteen healthy puppies, her udders swung prodigiously from her underside. But she was healthy, had good teeth, all her shots, gentle, loved playing with a ball, and very well behaved. “If you hang a bell by the back door,” the breeder said, “She’ll ring it to let you know when she has to go out.” 

“Does she like to cuddle?” my daughter asked. 

“She won’t go on your bed or the couch unless you put her there,” the breeder said. “She just likes hanging out on the floor.” 

“We’ll see, Natalie,” I said. “Rosie isn’t Felix. She’s something new.”  

After paying up and gathering all the requisite paperwork, we took Rosie home sleeping the whole way in my wife’s lap. When we finally arrived, she pranced through the house, nosily sniffing through every room before having something to eat, chasing a ball, and then dropping several large poops in my backyard. “Picking that up is gonna be your job, Natalie,” I said. Because it was now late, I sent Natalie up to bed and Rosie went right up with her. When it was time to tuck my daughter in, I found Rosie in the bed with her, snoring soundly. “So much for not wanting to get into bed,” I told my wife. “It’s almost like Felix never left.” 

The next morning, I took Rosie to my job to get her licensed and all my co-workers came out to pet her and offer congratulations. Many of them knew the troubles I’d suffered over the years and were perhaps glad a bright spot had appeared in my life. Then I took Rosie home for a long session with her ball until she was exhausted. Feeling sleepy myself, I went upstairs to take a nap and Rosie, of course, demanded to sleep next to me. Listening to her snoring, I stroked her soft fur and remembered what a restaurant patron had once told me, “Life is a series of dogs,” not realizing what a hopeful statement that was until the moment. 

When my dog Buster died in 2019, I was heartbroken but knew, one day, I’d get another one. The promise of that someday, that there was something to look forward to, was what sustained me. Humans are oriented towards the future’s promise; whether that’s looking forward to a new relationship, an upcoming wedding, dreaming of a vacation, better job or, as my daughter yearns, the day she can go to the mall by herself. Of course, the future we envision for ourselves isn’t always what it’s cracked up to but, when faced with disappointment, we just shift our hopes to something else. Life is filled with sorrow but our hope that good things and beautiful moments will keep occurring – and they do – is what keeps us going. How often do we hear about a seriously ill person trying to hang on so they can see a loved one get married or graduate high school? Hope is powerful. 

Of course, lots of people dismiss exhortations to hope as a shopworn cliché, but it isn’t. When faced with sorrows, we often resignedly say, “Life goes on,” but that’s just the point – it does. Whether its spring following winter, a baby’s first cry, people falling in love, or sunflowers gloriously blooming on a shattered battlefield, beautiful, wonderous things always happen whether we’re able to see them or not. The unseen future always becomes the witnessed present. Therefore, our hope for more tomorrows isn’t delusional but, when you think about it, the very substance and direction of reality itself.

I’m big on looking for “signals of transcendence” in everyday life, little clues that reveal something of what God truly is. I think that hoping for the future, that life will go on, may be the biggest signal there is. Perhaps, our hopes for the future are a glimmer, an echo, of the Resurrection’s itself. The Church teaches that the Easter Moment happened within and beyond history which means it’s always been happening or, as St. Paul wrote, “Yesterday, today, and forever.” That life does go on, that a series of beautiful things keep happening no matter what is, for me, the sign the Resurrection is true and why “we are here today.” We are all here because two people, however imperfectly, believed in our tomorrows. 

“Faith” as Pope Benedict wrote. “Is the substance of things hoped for; the proof of things not seen.” Lying in bed stroking Rosie’s fur, I knew my hope for an unseen dog had now become a witnessed present.  She wasn’t Felix or Buster but something new yet strangely familiar. For me that was a “signal,” an assurance, that life will always be triumphant. The Resurrection’s promise revealed in a dog? I’m sure my theology professors are rolling in their graves, but that’s how I see it.

Yesterday,” I whispered, basking in Rosie’s warmth. “Today, and forever.” 

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What’s In a Name?

Now that Pope Francis has gone to his heavenly reward, the handicapping and media hoopla over who’ll be the next Supreme Pontiff is underway. Although Francis stacked the deck, appointing eighty percent of the 135 voting cardinals, I wouldn’t put too much stock in that. As a priest friend of mine told me, the supposedly ‘liberal” Francis was picked by guys appointed by conservatives like John Paul and Benedict XVI.  

Some popes like Pius XII and Paul VI were shoo-ins at their conclaves while Karol Wojtyla and Jorge Bergoglio weren’t even on the media’s list of papabile. Cardinals also sometimes pick a man to make up for the previous pontiff’s supposed “shortfalls.” The youthful Wojtyla, who would reign 26 years, was selected after the 33 day reign of Albino Luciani and sunny pastoral Francis after the reserved and academic Ratzinger. But I wouldn’t put too much stock in that either. Of course, people believe the Holy Spirit picks the Pope, but I’ve always thought that was kind of simplistic. “I would not say… that the Holy Spirit picks out the Pope,” Papa Ratzinger said. “Because there are too many contrary instances of popes the Holy Spirit would obviously not have picked.” 

For example, Pope Benedict IX (1032) was pope three times, not only selling the papacy for cash but living such a dissolute life that one of his successors bemoaned Benedict’s “rapes, murders and other unspeakable acts of violence and sodomy” and concluded that “His life as a pope was so vile, so foul, so execrable, that I shudder to think of it.” I guess Benedict IX was the original ecclesiastical gangsta. The only guarantee the Holy Spirit gives is the new guy won’t turn the whole thing to shit. And if the Church made it through the Saeculum Obscurum, the Borgias, The Reformation, and the Internet, it’ll probably make it through whomever gets the white beanie next.    

But the first sign of how a new pope might govern could be parsed from the name he takes upon election. If it’s Pius XIII or John Paul III, we’ll probably get a more conversative doctrinaire pope. If it’s Francis II or John XXIV, however, Bergoglio’s policies will probably continue. Or the newbie pope could select a name that hasn’t been used in years so as to give no clue to his intentions: perhaps picking Clement, Innocent, Gregory, or Leo. Stephen, the ninth most popular papal name would, of course, be a classy choice. But, if he really wants to screw with people’s heads, the new pope could reach back into history and pick:

Lando II (Complete with The Millenium Falcon. Where’s Billy Dee?) 

Agatho II (He can write murder mysteries!) 

Linus II (Good grief! A philosopher with a security blanket on his coat of arms.) 

Dionysus II (The God of Partying! Good times!)  

Peter II (That would scare the shit out of paranoid end of the world types.) 

Constantine II (And do battle with demons!) 

Eleutherius II (Like, what the fuck?) 

Hilarius II (He does stand up comedy! But does he work blue?)

Hyginus II (He’d keep it clean.) 

Simplicius II (The Forrest Gump of Popes) 

Valentine II (Popes are like a box of chocolates. You never know which one you’re gonna get.) 

Zachary II (Pope Zack bro!) 

Or the new pontiff could go with the one of the most popular baby boy names in America! 

Pope Noah (You’re gonna need a bigger boat.) 

Pope Oliver (Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.)  

Pope Theodore III (Pope Teddy! I can see the plushies in the Vatican gift shop!)

Pope Lucas (The Force is strong with this one.)  

Pope Levi 501 (Or DI for the Latinists out there.)  

Pope Benjamin (Show me the money!) 

I’m also partial to:

Pope Otto or Felix (Dogs I’ve known and loved.)  

Pope Telesphorus (Beam me outta here!) 

Pope Natalius (The first Anti-Pope, but my daughter Natalie would get a kick out of it.) 

Pope Sylvester IV – (I thought I saw a Putty Tat!)

Pope Eugene V (My name is Eugene.) 

Pope Jules (“Latin motherfucker! Do you speak it?“) 

Pope Conner (There can be only one!) 

Whatever name the new pope takes, he has one heck of a job on his hands so let the cardinental sweepstakes begin!  My money is on Cardinal Matteo Zuppi from Bologna or Jean-Marc Aveline of Marseille. Papal name? Clement XV.

There can be only one!

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Rest In Peace, Papa Bergoglio

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Pope Sixtus Strikes Back

Now in the twelfth year of my reign and sick of all the ecclesiastical bullshit, I, Pope Sixtus VI, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the State of Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God, and Master of Pontifical Bling, issue the following solemn pronouncements ex cathedra from my secret lair in New Jersey: 

1) If you’re a priest playing dress up in satin and lace to celebrate the Latin Mass, I won’t stop you. Your career, however, will be terminal at curate. 

2) Open the St. Cajetan Resort & Casino in Las Vegas and direct all profits to pay abuse settlements. Get Joe Pesci and Bob DeNiro to run it. You won’t fuck with those guys. 

3) Make Gammarelli sell women’s fashions. I can just see the Instagram accounts.

4) Let people receive the Precious Blood at Mass through a straw. (Which, believe it or not, is a canonically approved option.) Krazy Straws for the kids, however, might be a bit much.  

5) Set up online AI powered confessionals. I promise, I won’t sell your information. 

6) Drop this whole no homosexuals in the priesthood thing. That’s where I get half my guys anyway. 

7) No more of this “And with thy spirit” shit. Now it’ll be “And also wit youse!” 

8) Make all priests attend Mass in the pews once month so they see what it’s like to suffer through a bad sermon. 

9) Kick all the tourists out of Castel Gandofo. It’s mine, mine, mine! 

10) Dig ex Cardinal Theodore McCarrick up and put him on trial. It’s been done before. 

11) Change the word “trespass” in the Lord’s Prayer to “debt.” Not only is it a more accurate translation, with the economic shit Trump’s pulling, it’s what we’ll all be in soon. 

12) Dispatch an exorcist to the White House and U.S Congress. They need one. 

13) Admit all baptized Christians to the Eucharist. Even the Mormons. It’s called market share, folks. 

14) Install stadium seating in St. Peters with big screen monitors everywhere. Rent it out for concerts to keep the Vatican’s lights on. 

15) Break up dioceses into thousands of smaller ones and create new bishops for each. That way there’ll be so many bishops that getting the job won’t be such a big deal. Right now, they’re all a bunch of whiny prima donnas. 

16) When the above mentioned prima donnas send me a dubia, a list of questions suggesting I don’t know what I’m doing, reply, “Like, I’m infallible assholes.” 

17) Take all the world’s billionaires on a tour of Mt. Aetna and tell them to get used to the view.

18) Figure out how to blast Prosperity Gospel hucksters with lightning from my fingertips. Darth Sixtus!

19) Give everyone ordered to self-deport from the U.S. Vatican passports. 

20) Have Kayne West compose a rap liturgy. What could go wrong?

21) Still sell stuff. Lots of stuff.

22) Rename the Apostolic Penitentiary “The Big House” You’ll love Cardinal Bubba. 

23) Give The Pieta to Disney in exchange for the rights to Star Wars. Right now, they’re just fucking it up. (Except for Andor.) 

24) Let women become priests. They couldn’t screw up any worse. 

25) Stop saying the Easter Bunny is satanic. There are better things you can do like feeding the hungry, giving drink to those who thirst, welcoming the stranger, clothing the naked, taking care of the sick, and visiting those in prison. Don’t waste God’s time!  

Happy Easter Everyone! Dominus vobiscum.

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Baby Soup

When Martin Scorsese’s film The Last Temptation of Christ came out in the summer of 1988, I was on the cusp of my junior year of seminary. Taken from Nikos Kazantzakis’ 1960 book of the same name, the movie was about what Jesus would’ve done if he took a pass on being crucified and lived the rest of his life as a regular man. As you can imagine, this drove religious types batshit crazy and our bishop even sent us a letter forbidding us from seeing the movie. Of course, we went anyway. 

After driving into Manhattan with some of my classmates and several priests in mufti, we walked over to the late great Ziegfeld Theater where we we’re greeted by a sight none of us would ever forget –hundreds of people protesting the movie. For a bunch of so called Christians, the angry vitriol they lambasted us with took my breath way. As they pressed against the barriers the cops set up to protect us, a street preacher thundered we were all going to hell while others in the fevered crowd called us godless communists, homosexuals, and haters of Jesus Christ. Then something hit me in the head. 

“You okay, Steve?” a priest said, grabbing me by the arm. 

“What the hell was that?” I said. Then I looked down and saw what hit me – one of those plastic fetuses abortion protesters liked to bring to their rallies. “You’re a baby killer!” a young woman screamed at me. “You’re a goddamn baby killer!” Looking at her crazed face. It was then I realized just how dangerous religion could be. Then we saw the movie. 

If you haven’t seen Scorsese’s masterpiece, I strongly recommend you do. It is a beautiful film with superb acting and, despite all the furor over Jesus becoming a regular dude, the whole “temptation” ended up just being a hallucination Satan tortured Jesus with as he hung on the cross. Snapping out of it just before he dies, Wilem Dafoe’s Christ utters, “It is finished” thereby accepting the will of his Father and redeeming all humanity. When the houselights came up you could hear a pin drop. “That was the most beautiful film about God I’ve ever seen,” the woman sitting behind me said and, when I turned to look at her, she had tears in her eyes. Then, when we walked back into the heat of an August night, we discovered all the protestors has vanished. 

Fast forward to 1989 when Last Temptation got released on VHS. Now a senior, I knew popping it into the community player would get an outsized reaction from my more conservative classmates and boy, I wasn’t disappointed. When their protestations to the rector went unheeded, a couple of them, led by Felix – the most joyless, rigid, dogmatic guy I ever had the displeasure to know – decided to kneel in front of the TV loudly praying the Rosary, blocking our view and ruining it for everybody else. But that was nothing compared to the stunt Felix pulled a short while later. 

It all started when Felix asked to use my car to perform an errand. Out of some misguided sense of charity, I let him use it, only to find he’d driven it to an anti-abortion rally in Manhattan and it parked in a tow away zone. To his credit he got it out of the impound lot, but not after I had to suffer several days without a car. “I’m going to fix that sucker if it’s the last thing I ever do,” I said. I know, I know, that doesn’t sound very godly for a guy studying to be a priest but, as the Good Book says, “Vengeance is mine.” 

The opportunity came soon enough. Since Felix was fervently pro-life, I knew he had some of those plastic fetuses anti-abortion protestors liked to toss at people in his room and, with the help of one of my more criminally inclined classmates, we busted into his room and found a garbage bag full of them in his closet. Still smarting from my experience outside the Ziegfeld, I said. “I have an idea.” 

In addition to being a dour religious stiff, Felix was also very, very cheap. In addition to always bumming rides and never offering gas money, he also was a world class mooch. Always ducking out on the check or helping himself to other guys’ leftovers in the fridge, he’d do anything for a free meal. So, my co-conspirator and I went into the kitchen. dumped all the plastic fetuses into a pot filled with water, put it on the stove, and then told another fellow to whisper in Felix’s ear something was cooking. We didn’t have to wait long. 

“Hey guys,” he said, practically bursting into the kitchen. “What are you guys making?” 

“Oh,” I said. ‘It’s a delicacy.”  

“Wanna see?” my helper said, stirring the pot with evil glee. 

“Sure!” Then, salivating with anticipation, Felix peered into the pot. Cue the psychotic break. 

“What the….!’ Felix yelped 

“It’s baby soup!” I cried. “But you have to use month old fetuses because they’re so tender.” Then we ladled one out for Felix’s inspection. 

“You’re sick You’re sick!” he cried running from the kitchen. “I’m going to tell the rector!” But the rector thought the whole thing was hysterical and poor Felix, well, he was never quite the same after that. Of course, he ended up becoming some kind of uber conservative priest who, last I checked, had never been entrusted with a parish of his own. Hmmm. 

Chuckling at the memory over thirty years later, I thought about the book about seminary I’d never written. Then again, maybe I’ve been going about it all wrong. Perhaps it would be better as a screenplay in the spirit of Animal House. I’ve got a whole cast of cassocked characters and good stories at my fingertips. I know nothing about writing screenplays, but a catchy title would be a good start. Any suggestions? The winner gets a screen credit. 

I see Hollywood in my future. 

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Sometimes You Just Want Time To Stand Still

I’ve been going to the same old fashioned barbershop for ten years. With a firetruck chair for kids in the window and an almost exclusively male clientele, it’s most definitely not a chic salon. They don’t offer manicures, facial exfoliants or a private room in the back for guys with “special” follicular problems. They only take walk-ins and, if you come on a busy day, you’re gonna cool your heels on a hard bench with all the other old timers. 

“Good morning, sir,” a barber said hopefully when I walked in. “Haircut?” Seeing my regular guy was busy buzz cutting a small child’s hair, I said, “I’ll wait for Vinnie.” 

“Yes, sir,” the barber said, barely hiding his chagrin. I could’ve felt guilty, but I wasn’t. Vinnie always cuts my hair, and I believe in monogamy as far as barbers are concerned. I saw my previous guy for almost forty years. On the rare occasion I’ve let some one other than Vinnie cut my hair, I felt like I was cheating on my spouse – though I don’t have any experience in that regard. 

“Hey, Vinnie,” I said, sitting on the bench. “How goes it?” 

“I’ll be done with this young man in a minute,” he said while trying to trim hair off the squirming child’s neck.  

“How old?” I said to the boy’s mother. 

“Three,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“He’s doing pretty good in the big boy chair,” I said. “My daughter screamed and cried when she was his age.” 

The chime above the front door tinkled and two old guys walked inside. “You waiting for Vinnie?” one said to me. When I replied in the affirmative, he sat next to me and started reading a newspaper. The other fellow, unwilling to wait, hopped into the chair of the less in demand barber. Cheater. 

After brushing off the little boy and ringing the mom up at the register, Vinnie gestured to his chair. “Sir?” he said. 

“How’s it going?” I said, sitting down.

“I’m tired.” 

“This is your busy day.” 

“And how.” 

Vinnie is eighty-five years old and spends his down time at the shop whittling figurines out of wood or making ships in bottles, examples of which were displayed on his counter.  When I asked him if he was ever going to retire, he replied, “And do what?”  He’s one of those guys who’s going to work until he dies – hopefully not when he’s in the middle of giving me a haircut. 

“A two today,” I said as he wrapped some gauze around my neck. “And take more of the top this time.” Other than letting girlfriends pressure me into getting a “new do” during my salad days, I’ve had the same Young Republican hairstyle almost all my life. When I was younger, I got mistaken for cop all the time.

Spying some foreign currency on Vinnie’s counter, I said, “Still collecting money from other countries for your grandson?” 

“Oh yeah,” he said. “He loves that stuff. That’s Filipino money there.” 

As Vinnie started in with the clippers, I fell into a relaxed trance and watched as the morning sun refracted through a jar of Barbicide and cast an emerald spectrum on the floor. There’s something about sitting still while a man wields razor sharp tools near your neck that seems to slow time down. Despite his age, Vinnie’s hands are rock solid and, in another life, he could’ve been a surgeon. Then again, in olden times, that’s what barbers used to do. The red and white stripes of a their pole representing the blood and bandages they used to deal with back they were still considered physicians. Luckily, I had no putrefying boils to lance. 

It’s often been said but, along with bartenders, barbers often fill the role of amateur psychologist or confessor. Vinnie has listened to me grousing about work, marriage, politics, kids, and my upset when I got diagnosed with cancer. Oddly enough, I told him about it before most of my friends. I suspect however, like a priest, Vinnie forgot everything I said the second I left his ersatz confessional. As he grabbed his scissors to do the detail work, I remembered I’d sat in this very chair an hour before the nursing home called to tell me my father was about to die. In retrospect, that half hour of Zen I spent with Vinnie helped me get through that terrible day. Then again, he’s probably so attentive because I’m such a good tipper.

About half an hour later, Vinnie held up a mirror to show the back of my neck. “Good?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

After an application of Consort hairspray and getting brushed off, I walked to the register to settle up. When I started here, a haircut was only fifteen dollars. Now it’s twenty-five. Maybe the tariffs Trump’s levying on everyone caused the price of Barbicide to skyrocket. After Vinnie made change from two twenties, I stuffed it into my wallet and then just smiled at him. After an awkward pause, I slapped my head and went, “Oh your tip!” and then pulled some Costa Rican colon bills and coinage out of my pocket. At the current rate of exchange, it came to $5 USD. I’d made sure to squirrel some away for Vinnie before I came home. 

“Thank you!’ he said, beaming. “My grandson will love these.” I don’t think he cared about the amount, just that I’d remembered his grandson’s numismatilogical passion. 

“The bills are made of plastic,” I said. “Five hundred colones is about a dollar.” 

“Thanks again, kid.” 

Walking out the door, I I looked at the bottled ships on Vinnie’s counter and reminded myself for the umpteenth time I should buy one off him. It’s no accident I’m faithful to an elderly barber. Eventually no one will be left to call me “kid” and I’d like a talisman to remember him by – but not today. Feeling the spring breeze flowing through my freshly shorn and Consort scented hair, I indulged in the fantasy that Vinnie would be my barber forever. 

Sometimes you just want time to stand still.

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Homesick

As Renee and I walked down the main drag of Playas del Coco the noonday sun was beating down like Vulcan’s hammer and I could feel the UV rays busily mutating my skin’s DNA. Even though the humidity was a sedate forty-eight percent, it was enough to make it feel like 104 degrees. 

“Jesus,” I said wiping my unprotected brow, “It’s hot.” 

“It’s like this almost every day,” Renee, said. 

“Good thing we hiked in the morning.” 

“We should have left earlier. Too much sun near the end.” 

I’d brought my running gear in hopes of getting some miles in during my Costa Rican vacation, but my drive withered once I’d saw the elevated topography around Renee’s home. I don’t mind running uphill for a stretch, it’s the downhill part that kills my knees. As a substitute Renee and I took to assaulting the steep hills overlooking Ocotal bay in the cool of the mornings. Heart pounding, but very scenic.

“We have to get out of this heat,” I said, feeling woozy. “And rehydrate.” 

“I know a place we can go for lunch,” Renee said.  

Sidewalks seem to be a suggestion in Playas del Coco, forcing people to walk in the street which, between all the gypsy cabs, scooters, mopeds, and retirees in golf carts, can be a daunting adventure – and every driver seemed to be looking at their cellphone. Noticing we were not walking facing traffic, I pulled Renne across the street so we could at least see danger hurtling toward us. 

“How far?” I said, as my legs turned to rubber.  

“A couple of blocks,” Renee said. Then we saw a lovely young blonde woman running towards us at a blistering clip. Clothed in very short shorts and a sports bra, the muscles of her abdomen were sharply defined and the sweat pouring off her body seemed to drain away whatever body fat she had left.

“She has to be an American,” I said as I turned to watch her go by. “Or extremely OCD.” 

“Got to fit into that bikini,” Renee said.

“She’s gonna get heatstroke.” 

Finally arriving at the restaurant, the owner greeted Renee like an old friend and immediately sat us at a table. To my chagrin, the place didn’t have air-conditioning but, between the shade and celling fans overhead, it was a damn sight better than the blast furnace outside.  “Water,” I told the waiter before he got a chance to say hello. After guzzling some H20, Renee and I ordered lunch and Imperial, the local beer. “Now I know why there are siestas,” I said. “This is too much.” 

“It’s better by my house,” Renee said. “The ocean and the forest cool things off some.” 

As I tucked into my meal, the blonde jogger ran past the restaurant on what must’ve been her return trip. This time, however, she was shuffling at a pace I could’ve beat walking. Although her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, I could see from her haggard expression that she was tortured. I could never understand why some runners feel it necessary to brutalize themselves in extreme temps. Oh well, I guess everyone self flagellates themselves in their own way. 

As I was eating to replace the energy I’d sweated out more than gustatory pleasure, a sharp pang of homesickness suddenly sickened me and ruined my appetite. I’d never been separated from my daughter so long and missed her. It was also the first time I’d ever travelled abroad by myself. When I got off the plane at Libera airport solo, I felt the novelty of being in a new place thrilling but now, three days later, it had worn off. Feeling anxious I was so removed from the world I knew, I tuned out and stared staring into space. 

“You okay?” Renee, said, sensing I was elsewhere.

“Being in a new and strange place and all that,” I said. “I’ll be all right.” But I knew that homesickness was just another word for vulnerability. 

Meal finished, Renee and I walked back into the heat, and I wondered if that blonde jogger was prostrate in bed jonesing for IV fluids now. Stopping off at a shop to buy a souvenir for my daughter, I picked out a cutesy looking sloth for my daughter’s menagerie of stuffed animals. I also felt a kinship with that creature who shared its name with one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Ever since my friend killed himself, I’ve been feeling unmotivated and depressed, moving slowly through life lest I stumble over one of my many inadequacies. Then again that’s why I came to Costa Rica in the first place, to go slow. It wasn’t a coincidence I flew there on the first anniversary of my dad’s death. 

An un-air conditioned cab ride later, we were back at Renee’s place feeling totally spent. After quaffing water like it was going out of style, a profound tiredness came over me and all I wanted to do was go into my room, crank the A/C to meat locker temps and get some shuteye. “Too much sun,” I said to Renee before retiring. “I think we both have mild heat exhaustion.” 

“I think you’re right,” he said. “Get some sleep. We’re meeting some friends of mine for dinner at six.” 

Half an hour later in my cold room I watched the ceiling fan whirling overhead while the sun blazed through a crack in the curtains and pasted an annoying band of brightness across the middle of the bed. Feeling restless, thoughts effervesced through my brain like a free associative cacophony of regret: flagellating me with opportunities missed, connections squandered, and memories of what I’d done and failed to do. Maybe that overheated jogger was running from some of the same things. When sleep finally did come, it was as shallow as I felt. 

A few hours later I was indulging in beer and barbeque with Renne’s friends while a singer sang seductively on the restaurant’s stage. Taking a break from the conversation, I looked out the window and watched as the twilight skies lapped magenta shadows on the distant hills while the clouds above incandesced with seraphic fire. Reveling in nature’s loveliness, I half remembered a quote, “The beauty of the world is God’s tender smile for us coming through matter.” By coming a new place, I’d hoped to escape my sorrows only to find they’d come along for the ride. But looking at the shimmering vista, I realized something else had followed me here too – something familiar yet delightfully new. Feeling the ocean breeze caressing my face as it swept away the heat of the day, I could almost hear it whispering, “Nothing is ever lost.” Sighing, I realized home was far bigger than I could ever imagine and that somewhere, somehow, my father and friend were there too. Rejoining the warm company and food, I relaxed for the first time that day. 

I was no longer homesick. 

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Staying Chill

Almost as soon as my wife’s plane lifted off the tarmac for California, my daughter said, “Remember you promised to take me to the escape room.”

“My word is my bond,” I replied. I knew once we got into the escape room, however, Natalie would want me to solve all the puzzles required to unlock the door. Seeing an opportunity to relieve myself of that burden, I said, “Why don’t we invite your friend Lisa to come along?” 

“That’s a great idea!” Natalie said. What a sucker. 

Throughout Natalie’s life, my wife’s made several business trips a year, leaving me to take care of our daughter solo.  When Annie made her first trip after Natalie was born, I suspected my mother and mother-in-law were worried I’d forget to feed and change her or absentmindedly leave her infant car seat on the hood and drive away – to the point that I felt a twisted sense of pride that Natalie was still alive when my wife got back. But, as I’ve pointed out to my spouse several times, she’s never had care for Natalie by herself as much as I have. In fact, when I went to Costa Rica, that was the longest Annie ever had our daughter all to herself. “And she cheated,” I told my host. “She had her sister stay over to help her!”  

On Sunday, I picked Lisa up at noon and began the trek to the mall, but needed a caffeine boost first and detoured to my favorite coffee shop. Stay here,” I told the girls, as they chattered in the backseat with the speed of bi-polar patients on crack. “I’ll be right back.” When the proprietor handed me my coffee and asked how I was doing, I replied, “I’m taking two tween girls to the mall to go to an escape room. What could go wrong?” 

“You’re such a good dad,” he said, rather mournfully I thought. 

When we got to the mall, we hit a restaurant so the girls could fortify themselves with hamburgers while I munched on a sensible chicken sandwich. Though the bar had my favorite beer on tap, I resisted the siren call of hops because I was responsible for a child who was not my own and drank seltzer instead. Lisa’s dad also happens to be a cop, and I’d hate trying to explain to him how I’d lost her. Handcuffs aren’t a good look for me. Skipping dessert over protest, I paid the bill, left our harried waiter a nice tip, and then guided my charges out the door and into the crowded mall. 

“You guys have to find the escape room.” I said. 

“I don’t know where it is,” Natalie said. 

“You’ll be spending a lot of time in malls soon,” I said. “Figure it out.” 

My daughter is always asking when she can go to the mall with her friends without her parents in tow. At eleven, that’s not an option, but I decided to hang back and give the girls the illusion of freedom as they attempted to navigate by themselves. Passing another dad following a gaggle of girls, we grinned at each other in solidarity. Eventually, Natalie and Lisa found the escape room complex, and we were soon locked inside what the staff called “the easiest room.” With one hour to liberate ourselves, I sat down on the floor and watched my daughter and Lisa frantically sort through all the clues, offering helpful inspiration when they got stuck. 

“If you knew they’d pump poison gas in here if you fail,” I said, “You’d be more motivated.” 

The escape room was anything but “easy,” and to my embarrassment, my daughter and her friend solved the clues faster than I could. Lisa was especially sharp and, if she had more time, she would have solved it but, alas, the clock ran out. Instead of being dejected, my daughter was ready to move on to the next thing. “Can we go to Claire’s and shop by ourselves?” she pleaded.  

Claire’s seems to be the go to place for tween girls to buy costume jewelry, knickknacks and get their ears pierced. I’d taken Natalie there when she was seven to get her ears punctured with all the attendant wailing and love showing her the video I took to embarrass her in front of future boyfriends. Knowing the staff were always on guard for shoplifters, I walked into the store and told the cashier, “I’m the dad and I’ll be right outside.” and let the girls shop by themselves. “Stay within your budget,” I told them before I left. Thirty minutes later the girls emerged with their purchases.  Natalie got a bottle of perfume while Lisa got earrings for her little sister and friendship bracelets adorned with a pendant that split in two. Natalie was proudly wearing one half and Lisa the other. Pals forever. 

“Look,” Lisa showed me. “The pendant changes color depending on your mood.” 

“So, what does the color blue mean?” I said, pointing to her half. 

“It means I’m chill.” 

“Me too, Dad,” Natalie said. “I’m so chill.” 

The girls begged me to take them to a frozen yogurt place and, after shelling out twenty-seven bucks for bacteria cultures loaded with candy, I let them prattle while I read the news on my phone. “Still chill?” I asked after they pushed their half-eaten treats away. 

“I’m so full,” Lisa said.

Tossing $13.50 in the trash, we went back my house where the girls retired to my daughter’s bedroom and giggled over lord knows what until it was time to return Lisa to her parents. After dropping her friend off, I told Natalie we had to go to the supermarket to pick up supplies for the week. “You’re pushing the cart,” I said. But, as we were picking out fruit and vegetables in the produce aisle, Natalie’s looked at her wrist with a start and shrieked, “I lost my bracelet!” 

“I’m sure you didn’t lose it,” I said. “It’s probably in the car.” 

“Lisa’s going to be so mad!” she said, anxiety coloring her voice.

“Relax. I’m sure you’ll find it.” 

“I’ve got to look for it! Maybe I dropped it walking into the store.” 

“Okay,” I said, testing an avocado for ripeness, “Go retrace your steps. I’ll be right here. Just don’t go outside.”  

Some parents would never let their eleven year old walk around a busy supermarket unattended but I’ve been trying to let Natalie off the reins a bit since she’s going into middle school next year. Besides, she had her phone watch to call me if she ran into trouble. Returning to my shopping, my brain edited through several recipes as I picked out ingredients and planned for the week ahead. Then that alarm all parents have in their brain began to wail. Natalie’s taking too long. Leaving my cart behind, I went looking for her. 

When Natalie gets anxious, part of her brain shuts off and I was worried she’d disobeyed my injunction not to go outside. Fearing vehicular mishap, I abandoned my cart and darted out to my car looking for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. Returning to the store, I walked around and, when I still couldn’t find her, I called her phone watch – but it just rang, and rang, and rang. Feeling a sense of dread spread through my chest, my mind went to a very dark place. If I’d been wearing that mood bracelet the pendant would’ve turned black. Suddenly all the shoppers around me became enveloped in a sinister aura and I had visions of Natalie being whisked away in a non-descript van to some horrible destination. Then I took a deep breath and remembered such events are exceedingly rare and, when they do happen, the first suspect is one of the child’s own parents. But my wife was 3000 miles away, so that struck her off the list. Then, just as I was about to go to security to report a lost child, my phone dinged with an incoming text.  

Dad where are you? 

By the vegetables. 

K.

When I finally saw Natalie walking towards me, I faked being nonchalant. It wouldn’t do to freak when I was trying to teach her to be more independent. “I tried calling you,” she said, sounding very annoyed. “But it went straight to voicemail. You really should fix that.” 

“Sorry,” I said. 

“I called mom, but she didn’t pick up either.” 

“Your mom’s in San Diego,” I said. “What the heck could she do?” 

“I dunno. Get you on the phone?” Just great.

“Did you find your necklace?” 

“No.”

Of course, my wife called Natalie to see what was going on.  Bending down to speak into the watch I said, “Sorry, honey, we have to still pay for college.”  

“Darn,” Annie said. 

“Don’t worry,” Natalie said, “You guys are going to be paying big time.”  

Back in the car, Natalie found her bracelet and I asked her to hand it to me, Pressing it against my wrist, I saw the pendant turn blue, not black. I was chill. Later that night, after I’d checked the locks and was heading to bed, I peeked into Natalie’s room and saw she was fast asleep with her new friendship bracelet securely on her wrist. While I had the shit scared out of me, she had a very nice day and I was glad I could give it to her. Slipping under the covers, I stared at the patterns cast on the ceiling by the moonlight filtering through the trees and sighed. I knew more days riven with worry over Natalie lay ahead of me – that first walk home from middle school, trips to the mall by herself, driving on her own, dating, college, her first apartment, etcetera, etcetera. When I was an expectant father, I hated when veteran parents told me – rather sadistically to my mind – “When you have kids you worry all the time.” But when Natalie was born a good friend of mine told me, “Yeah, you worry, but what your children give you in return more than makes up for it.” So far, he’s been right. 

But I know it’ll be hard to stay chill.  

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Making Things Worse?

When I got back from Hawaii, I was greeted with a snowy negative eighty degree temperature swing and, to add insult to injury, was forced to dig out my driveway before we could unload our luggage from the car. “Fuck this,” I said, as my thinned blood rebelled in the frigid air, “Now I know why old people move to Florida.” The next say I called my friend in Costa Rica and, a month later, found myself in a beach town in Guanacaste, once again enjoying ninety degree temps while my wife and daughter shivered at home.  

“This is the life,” I said, enjoying a beer on my friend’s veranda. “No wonder you moved down here.” 

“Whenever I get sick of work,” Renee said, “I just go outside and it’s like I’m on vacation again.”

The gated beachside compound where Renee lives is filled with newish retirees from Canada and America with some renters and Airbnb nomads thrown in. The previous day, I’d met Gabriella, a lovely young Costa Rican woman renting the studio attached to the back of my friend’s condo. A teacher by training, she’d segued into the wellness industry and rode a scooter to a resort early every morning to teach tourists yoga classes. Fetching with a lovely smile, flowing locks and sparkling eyes, it was obvious from her trim physique that she practiced what she preached. As we chatted about how many women in my town patronize our local yoga studio, she told me something I never knew. “Yoga was once almost exclusively practiced by men,” she said. “It’s only fairly recently that more women started doing it.” Boy, did that change. Then, after she scooted away with her yoga mat strapped to her seat, I let out a happy sigh. I may be married, but I’m not dead. 

The next day, after an early morning hike in the surrounding hills, we went into town and ate a “desayuno tipico” of eggs, black rice and beans, sausage, plantains, and washed it down with some local beer. (Beer with breakfast? Hey, I was on vacation.) Then after a siesta to avoid the midday heat, we sat on Renee’s porch with a cigars and watched baby monkeys swinging in the trees above us while the adults seemed content wrap their tails around a branch and chill out. Oddly enough, they all seemed to poop at the same time. Of course, I ended stepping in some of it once or twice. 

“So, you don’t own the studios behind you?” I asked Renee.

“No, they belong to a guy who lives in Virginia,” he said. “Gabriella’s been house sitting in one for several months while she does her yoga gig.” 

“And by scooter to boot,” I said.

“Cars are very expensive here.” 

“Not just that,” I said. “The roads are uh, interesting. Last night I saw a toddler riding on the handlebars of a motorcycle.”  

“I’ll give you a tour of the compound later and show you the studios. They’re quiet and very private.” And that folks, is when the fun began. 

“Oh dear,” I said, as we stood by Gabriella’s doorway. “This young woman seems to have suffered a wardrobe malfunction.” 

“What should we do?” Renee asked. 

Gabriella had washed her clothes and left them to dry outside on a folding rack while she was at work. Whether it was the wind or an animal, the rack had been knocked over and now all her yoga pants, t-shirts, socks, blouses, and underthings were on the ground – small lacy lingerie things. 

“We should at least pick them up,” I said. 

“I don’t know,” Renne said, understandably hesitant. “That’s kind of private stuff.” 

“How would you feel if you came home and found all your underwear in the dirt?” 

“You have a point.” 

So, Renee set the rack upright and rehung what was still damp while I neatly folded the woman’s “delicates” and placed then on a nearby table. “Don’t try and put one in your pocket,” Renne joked. At least I hoped he was joking. 

 “I live with two women and handle ladies’ underwear every day,” I said. “Trust me, the romance is gone.”  

“Do you think Gabriella’s going to be pissed?” 

“Dude, we’re not going to tell her a thing.”

Long before I met my wife, I lived with a girlfriend in an apartment without a washer and dryer, forcing me to drag our dirty clothes to a laundromat once a week. Then, when I returned, I’d fold her stuff and mine while watching television the couch. I know, I was a wonderful boyfriend, but my tender industriousness once got me into serious trouble.

“What’s this?” my old girlfriend shrieked one day, waving a very tiny and racy pair of panties in my face. “I found them in the cushions!” 

“They’re not yours?” I asked. 

“You know they’re not mine! They’re too small!”  I know women have “everyday” lingerie and “special ones” and that particular piece of satin and lace was definitely the later. 

“Whoever they belong to,” I said. “Must’ve left them in the wash and they got mixed up with your stuff at the laundromat. Then, when I was folding clothes on the couch, they got wedged into the cushions.” Sound reasonable, but my girlfriend wasn’t convinced. “You expect me to believe that?” she yelled. Man, that was an awkward moment but, eventually, I managed to mollify my old girlfriend with what was, I swear, the god’s honest truth – but I don’t think she ever quite fully trusted me after that again. And they were a nice pair of panties. That day I discovered women get very defensive when it comes to lingerie.  

“Better Gabriella never knows,” I told Renee. 

The next morning, as my friend and I were drinking coffee on his porch, Gabriella walked stiffly past us with a yoga mat in one hand and her motorcycle helmet in the other. Without saying a word, she hopped on her scooter and took off. 

“She knows,” Renee said. 

“Probably,” I said, shrugging. “No good deed ever goes unpunished.” 

When I told my wife the story that night, she had a good chuckle but, when I recounted the tale to a female friend after I returned home, she gasped, “You didn’t!”

“What was I supposed to do?” I said, feeling my face start to burn. “Would you want to come home and find a monkey wearing your bra as a hat?” After walking away, I began to think that maybe I should’ve left things well enough alone. I like to think I was being helpful but, by telling Renee not to say anything, I was also aware how our actions could be misconstrued. I’d hate to think that young woman thought I was some kind of perverted middle aged man. The again, in our effort to help people, sometimes we only make things worse. Did I do the right thing or go totally of bounds? I will let you, my dear readers, make that decision. 

And no, I didn’t take home any lacy souvenirs. 

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